The Heart Under the Mountain
by Daaro Moltor
Summary: After the Battle of Five Armies, Bilbo went back to the Shire. It was the expected thing to do, after all.


After the Battle of Five Armies, as it had come to be known, Bilbo went back to the Shire.

It was the expected thing to do, after all.

Not _immediately_ after, of course; he had lingered long enough to see all three of the line of Durin restored to full health, as well as the reparations begin on the mountain. His banishment had been, quite graciously, redacted and apologies had been given where apologies had been due. He had been given free access to the mountain and a grand chamber to reside in, and was hailed as a hero among the dwarves.

But, of course, the question had eventually come. "When are you returning to _your_ home, Master Hobbit?"

"Oh," Bilbo had said, quite startled, both by the question and the fact that it was a complete stranger posing it to him. "Quite soon," he had managed fiddling with the buttons on his vest, "quite soon."

Before long, the whole company had asked him.

Before long, they had asked him several times each.

Then one day Gandalf said, "My dear fellow, it seems our tasks here are coming to an end. What do you say, shall we keep each other company on the road back?"

"If you would have me, my friend, then we shall, and be all the merrier for it." Bilbo had replied, patting Gandalf's arm with a smile.

And then it turned out that Gandalf had meant to leave the day after next, and there had been a great hurry with packing and saying goodbyes and before Bilbo knew it he was waving to a splendidly adorned royal procession and turning his back to the Lonely Mountain, with Gandalf's comforting hand on his shoulder as he blew his nose in one of a gifted set of elaborately embroidered handkerchiefs.

The Shire was quite as he had left it.

The hobbits seemed so surprised to see him that all but the fauntlings - who started at him and Gandalf with open mouths and pointing fingers - greeted him like they'd seen each other only yesterday.

"Fine weather today, Master Baggins."

"Will we be seeing you at the market this Sunday, Master Baggins?"

"How are your tomatoes coming along, Master Baggins?"

It was all quite bizarre since Bilbo carried an (however small) elven sword at his side, lugged behind him a chest full of all the troll-gold that hadn't managed to fit into his backpack, and wore a coat of mithril under his shirt. Not to mention the wizard he had in tow.

But Gandalf took it with good humor and was gracious and bad him a fond goodbye at his gate.

The mark in his round door was easily spotted now that he knew that it was there, and he resolved to have a new layer of green paint cover it at earliest opportunity. It wouldn't do for another company of dwarves to come stumbling through his door, now, would it?

Arm sore, he put the chest down as soon as he was far into his dear old Bag End to be able to close the door unhindered. His pack he tore from his back and threw down beside.

Then he took a bath.

Then he made himself a cup of tea, in his dear grandmother's beautifully flowered china.

Then he slept in a soft bed, with earth above his head instead of stone.

When he woke, he resolved himself to a peaceful day in his garden. It was well tended and seemed hardly had suffered from his long absence – probably thanks to dear old Hamfast Gamgee – but he wanted to get his fingers down into the familiar earth. And besides: it would allow the neighbors to peer at him all they wanted without the bother of inviting them through the door and in for tea.

And so he toiled in the earth, and saw that his tomatoes were coming along nicely, and he reported this to all hobbits who stopped to chat. None yet asked where he had been, or what he had done.

Perhaps they were frightened it might be something contagious, this whole adventuring business.

The next day – a Sunday – he went to the market, for his pantry was still quite pillaged. He bought a sweet roll when he arrived, to munch on when he browsed. It was a fine day, with blue skies and soft winds and plenty of hobbits were out doing their shopping, but when he came home and unpacked what he had purchased, he found that it was all hard cheese and dried fruits and waybread. His lips tightened impatiently at this, and he quickly rewrapped the entirety of it, and went to stuff it into his backpack where he would not have to see it.

He faltered in his indignation when he tore his backpack open. He had not touched it since throwing it to the floor and now he peered down at its contents uncomfortably.

Not yet, he decided. He could afford to put off the dreary unpacking and washing for a few more days. For now, he would simply bask in the contentment of being _home._

The problem with this, he admitted to himself as stretched upright with his hands on his back, was that he did not _feel_ content.

It was an odd thing, he thought. With the dwarves, he had longed for the comfortable peace and quiet that Bag End had offered. On the road, he had longed for all its little everyday luxuries. Finally back, he had found the comforts and luxuries overstated and altogether sweeter in recollection than in presence.

Bag End seemed huge, all to himself. And yet, not large enough.

 _"I'll take a walk,"_ he decided on the third day of being back. _"That'll do me good, some air and proper earth under my feet. Perhaps I shall bring my bedroll, even, since the evening looks to be so fine."_

He did bring his bedroll, if only because it was still in the rucksack he had yet to unpack. Sting he tied to his waist simply because he was used to it being there – and perhaps a little bit because he found it a comfort against the dangers he now knew lurked in the world outside the Shire. He made sure it was well hidden beneath his traveling cloak though, as to not scandalize his neighbors unnecessarily.

Thus Bilbo stepped outside his door, fingers playing against Gandalf's mark as it closed.

 _"I'll head east,"_ he thought, looking out over the little green hills of Hobbiton, _"so that I can enjoy the sun on my face as I walk."_

And so he strolled, quite leisurely, greeting his neighbors politely as he passed them, making an altogether smaller fuss than last time he departed. As was appropriate, since this was an altogether smaller journey.

 _"I'll just walk for as long as my feet feel the desire to,"_ he thought, " _there's no need to make any particular plans."_

And so he walked, his feet taking him steadily east through the Shire, his pack on his back lighter than he remembered it being. He crossed The Water by the bridge near the Bywater Pool, and came upon Bywater Road. The sun had passed over the sky and was on his back when he reached the Great East Road, and not an hour later he came upon the Three Farthing Stone, which he patted merrily as he passed.

All day his feet carried him east, and when the sun set and he felt that they needed a rest, he made camp on a nice tuft of soft grass. There, his eyes on the clear Eärendil until they fell shut, he slept better than he had in his soft bed in Bag End.

Winter had given away to spring as he had walked with Gandalf, and that morning he woke with green light on his face, filtered through the first buds on the trees. The sun felt so lovely that he frankly could not help walking towards it, and when it reached its apex and then finally began to fall behind him he decided that he couldn't very well rob his back and neck of its lazy heat. And so he kept walking east.

The pattern continued as Bilbo walked along the Great East road. Elves he met, likely headed towards the Gray Heavens, and he nodded politely to them if they paid him any attention. Dwarves passed him, perhaps heading for the very mountain he had helped reclaim, and he ducked his head and pretended the whispered Khuzdul didn't sting in his ears.

Still, it was a pleasant journey, and he nibbled on dried apples and plums as he walked, and set an altogether more proper pace than on his last hurried escapade.

"It's just a walking holiday," he told himself firmly, for his ears and feet to hear, when his legs began to itch for a quicker pace. "No need to rush."

Why he would need a walking holiday after spending the last year crossing Middle Earth _twice,_ he did not dwell on overmuch. Instead he busied himself with composing songs, and amending the one he had sang to Gandalf when he'd seen Bag End again:

" _The Road goes ever on and on_

 _Down from the door where it began._

 _Now far ahead the Road has gone,_

 _And I must follow, if I can,_

 _Pursuing it with eager feet,_

 _Until it joins some larger way_

 _Where many paths and errands meet._

 _And whither then? I cannot say."_

On Bilbo's sixth day of walking, it began to rain.

At first, Bilbo gleaned some enjoyment from the impromptu shower, but soon it made him far too cold for comfort. Thankfully he had already passed several signs pointing him towards the small town of Bree, and he reached it within the hour. At the local inn, _The_ _Prancing Pony_ it was called _,_ a kindly man accepted his coin and promised a cozy room and warm towels in return.

As he hung his clothes and dried his feet, and got himself warm by the small fire in his room, he thought to himself: _"What a lovely adventure I have had. No dragons or trolls or fear of death. But now I'd better go back and see what this downpour has done to my soil. Adventuring in the wet is not much fun anyway."_

He fell asleep to that thought, and woke to another: _"I shall get myself a pony. I did so like Myrtle, and it shall keep me company on the road, and when we come back we shall make a new potato patch together."_

The kindly barman had pointed him to where one might buy a pony, and then paled when Bilbo, bringing forth not only his own coin purse but also the loot from the troll horde, had shown him what he had brought to barter with. He had shushed and waved and cast about so, that even Bilbo understood that he had brought a seemly sum with him.

The pony he got for two of the old coins, and called Shirley.

Another gold coin got the pair of them more supplies, though _quite_ a lot more than Bilbo had expected. But a poor hobbit he would be if he complained that he had too much to eat, and the pantry needed filling when they returned anyway, and so poor Shirley was heavily loaded when they set out from the gates of Bree.

And then Bilbo realized that it didn't rain any longer, and that the sky was clear and blue and the wind was warm.

Then he spotted a lovely cluster of purple flowers by the wayside.

" _I know what I will do,"_ he thought to himself, _"I shall go a little while longer, and I shall see if I can't find some new flowers for my garden. That'll liven the place up, and planting them will give me something to do."_

And so, Bilbo pointed Shirley to the east and began telling her of all the flowers he hoped to find.

Bilbo was only on a brief walking holiday, so when he looked up at the moon during one night of peaceful riding and saw the waning gibbous he almost fell out of his saddle.

A _whole month!_

Valar preserve him, Lobelia had probably proclaimed him both dead and mad back in the Shire, and made off with all his silver. He made to turn Shirley on the spot, but she had spied a small stream and like the stubborn dear she was she refused to turn until she had gotten her drink. He tutted at her, but patted her neck and chuckled as she drank.

When he straightened, he saw the blue silhouettes of the Misty Mountains painting a jagged edge among the stars.

And then, as his heart stuttered in his chest and his throat closed up horribly, he admitted to himself that maybe it wasn't a holiday after all.

He hadn't even remembered to keep an eye out for flowers.

There was a great stream of dwarfs heading for the Lonely Mountain now, and all Bilbo had to do was to follow them. He kept at a polite distance, introduced himself modestly if asked and flashed Sting when he suspected sticky fingers, but as a rule no one paid much attention to him. They took the way north of the forest, along the Ered Mithrin, and it was a largely uneventful road.

Erebor stood like a jagged shard of glass in the otherwise flat landscape.

He saw it in the sunset, when the world was painted pink and only the brightest stars were showing in the east. Once more he had to make use of the lovely handkerchiefs he had been given.

The tears came to Bilbo despite him being quite unable to identify the reason behind them. Perhaps, he thought as he looked about him, he was simply caught up in the feelings of the dwarrows around him, who were shouting and crying of joy, hugging and clasping hands. Or, these people reminded him of the very first time he had seen the Mountain, with quite another set of companions around him. Quite probably, it had something to do with the thought of finally seeing these friends again.

But perhaps it was mostly because that erratic piece of his heart had finally settled into place.

Shirley smacked and neighed consolingly when he released the reins to blow his nose.

When he reached it, he paid to have Shirley stabled in a rebuilt part of Dale, and set off towards the mountain on foot.

Here there were crowds now, where last there had been desolation and war, and Bilbo almost got dizzy with it. The road to the great gate was stuffed with dwarves and men from one ditch to the other, and there was no order to the way they were walking. Bilbo, despite being almost as tall as the dwarves, was not nearly as sturdy and broad, and the Men towered hopelessly above him, and he bounced to and fro at the whims of the crowd. At was an alarming feeling, after so many months of solitude on the road.

Had the peak before him not been so familiar, he might perhaps have wondered if he was in the right place at all; it seemed absurd to think that a Dragon had resided there not a year ago.

The throngs of people only got larger as he neared the entrances. He was picked up off of his feet several times, born aloft like upon the crest of a wave, and not always deposited in the direction he had wished to go. Alarm quickly increased towards full-blow panic, and when he reached the great stone dwarves guarding the gates he was so agitated that he slipped his old ring onto his finger and threw himself into a ditch.

Laying on his back and staring up at the wall of people, he breathed a sigh of relief when the bustle of the world quieted and took on muted colors.

Quiet and invisible he slipped inside of the gates when there was a lull in the masses, and immediately saw why the place was so packed: dozens upon dozens of stalls were set up in the grand entry hall of Erebor, with dwarves and men and even the odd elf displaying their wares. There was shouting and haggling and enough smells in the air to make sure not a single one could be properly identified.

It was market day.

Or perhaps every single say was like this, in this last of great dwarven kingdoms.

Surprisingly, the multitudes gathered ended up working in Bilbo's favor. An empty hall might have been preferable, yes, but the hall was crowded enough that no one paid any mind to a brush or bump without obvious source. And there was no need nor point to being quiet either.

He admired at the wares as he passed. There was a great assortment of all imaginable kinds of jewelry, in gold and silver and bronze and set with a rainbow of different stones and gems. Weapons there was also in great variety, some of which Bilbo had never seen before and much less knew what to do with. And there was food in large quantities, grains and game and fish and herbs, and ready-made pies and pastries and sweets. And cloths, and tools, salves and poultices, trinkets, toys, books, pipe weed, tea, scrolls, spices, quills, yes, even flowers; Erebor had all it could wish for and more on its doorstep.

Bilbo marveled as he took it all in, a hopeless little smile on his face. Beneath the amazement something greater bubbled, something _more._ Pride.

 _Oh, King Under the Mountain, see what you have accomplished._

It was a long walk until he had passed the last stand, but from there the crowds thinned rapidly and the going got easier. His feet fell softly against the warm stone in the halls, just like last time, and the dwarfs he passed – for it was only dwarfs this deep – took no notice of him.

He wandered in contentment for a while; the same sort of contentment he had expected but never felt when he had returned to Bag End. He didn't think too much on it, though; he simply walked and smiled and admired the beautiful stonework. He let his feet lead him were they would and his fingers trail the walls when they wanted. He had learnt the ways to and from some of the locations in the mountain – such as the kitchen and the library – but more importantly he had come to know that, as long as there was plenty of lights, there would shortly be a dwarf around to show him the way back should he get lost.

He trusted in this as he explored, and worried not as he lost all sense of what was north and south and east and west. All would be well; _he was back_.

Time slipped by as he wandered, and, as was inevitable, he eventually came upon and a set of doors which he recognized well. Five times his height they were, and a great dwarf with arms outstretched was carved in their fronts, split in the middle with coins piled in one hand and gems in the other.

This was the dwarven hall of justice.

Here, many months ago, they had gathered to count up and distribute the shares of the treasure among the company, as well as give due shares to both elves and men.

It was not strange that he had ended up here, seeing as, as Fili and Kili had explained to him, this hall was a sort of hub for the dwarven city, and many roads lead past it. Still, Bilbo felt almost fated to have come here. Gripped by nostalgia, Bilbo peered carefully in both directions before he slipped off his ring. The doors, though surely they weighed several tons each, slipped open as easily as dwarven doors tended to do.

As such, he had no time to stop them when the sound of voices suddenly slipped through the rapidly growing crack. Bilbo fumbled, but had not the power nor weight to stop the hefty doors once momentum had gripped them.

The cacophony of the council Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain, died down quickly. One after the other, as the participants noticed their companions falling quiet, they turned to look at him.

It was an odd reversal, Bilbo thought, somewhere in the back of his mind, of that night in the Shire which seemed like half a lifetime ago.

And Bilbo, a hobbit, had never wished more dearly to be smaller.

"Burglar?"

It was no wonder that he had not spotted Thorin, standing at one end of the tall table as he was, but now that he spoke Bilbo found that he had eyes for little else.

He stared for a heartbeat without being able to process what he was seeing, then, through the blankness of his mind, one little sliver of an observation came to him: Thorin had let his beard grow. It was gathered in a short but thick and shining braid down from the tip of his chin and was tied off with a silver bead. From there Bilbo's eyes traveled, drinking the vision of him in. His hair was as black and shining a raven, and if Bilbo hadn't known better he would have said there was less gray in it now than there had been the first time they had met. He wore only a blue linen tunic, with its sleeves rolled up. His arms were as broad and thick as ever, and so were his shoulders, squared in that hopelessly regal posture of his. His customary fur jacket hung over the back of the great chair behind him.

Bilbo was suddenly very aware that he hadn't cut his own hair since he left Bag End the _first_ time and that his clothes were covered in Shirley's little brown hairs and the dust from the road.

"H-hello, Thorin," he managed and forced a smile, just barely able to keep his hands from brushing off his clothing.

"Out." Thorin demanded.

For a moment a tense confusion hung about the room.

Then Bilbo sprang into action, and grabbed for the doors he had thrown open. "Of course! I- I'm so sorry- didn't even knock- have no _idea_ what came over me, I-"

"Not you." Thorin said, and turned to his advisors. "You. Out, all of you. Get out."

And so they did, scrambling for quills and books and paper, and Bilbo stood by the door and offered apologies to each and every one of them. They only returned raised eyebrows and hums of bewilderment.

The last pair pulled the doors closed behind them. Bilbo turned carefully from their intricately patterned insides to Thorin.

"Hobbit. Bilbo. Is it truly you?"

Quite unexpectedly, a laugh bubbled up from Bilbo's throat. "Yes, well, I'm sorry to report that the rest of Hobbiton was quite as adventurous as I left them, so it is only me, I'm afraid."

Thorin took a step towards him, and Bilbo had to fight to remain on the spot. "But… _how?_ Burglar, you were going _home."_

This time, he only managed a nervous and half-hearted giggle. "I rather was, wasn't I?"

"Then what happened?" Thorin was advancing on him properly now, voice rising. "Were you delayed? Hurt? Where is Gandalf?"

"No, no, no, no! You misunderstand!" Bilbo said waving his hands and backing away from Thorin, but soon found himself against the wall. "Everything went fine. Quite uneventful, and Gandalf left me on my doorstep."

"Then why do you not remain there?" Thorin asked, voice now soft. "What happened?"

His fingers were tracing Bilbo's bare cheek in wonder, and Bilbo was having trouble finding words. He licked his lips. "I- I endured it for three days, and then I could remain no more,"

Thorin's hand dropped and his voice hardened. " _Endured_? What is it you do not speak of, Hobbit? What _happened_?"

"Nothing!" Bilbo exclaimed, waving his hands placatingly. "Nothing happened, and so of nothing do I speak! It was just… not what I expected. So, I set off on a short walk, and then I bought a pony, and then somehow I ended up here."

"I-… do not understand." Thorin said, brow furrowed, and took step back. "Did you… get lost?"

Bilbo couldn't contain a rather hysterical giggle at this. "Yes, yes perhaps I did!"

"You speak like an elf," Thorin grumbled, eyes darting about Bilbo's face. "Say plainly, why have you come?"

"Because I wanted to." Bilbo replied, and Thorin's eyes abruptly stilled on his lips as if he couldn't believe the words that had passed them. "Truth be told, I am not sure I would have left at all if someone had only suggested that I didn't have to."

Thorin's eyes snapped up to meet Bilbo's at this. His voice was oddly hoarse when he spoke. "What?"

Bilbo shrugged. "I mean to say that, all that was asked of me was when I would leave, and none – including myself, so I'm not blaming anyone – seemed to consider that I could simply… remain. I hadn't even thought about leaving until it was brought up to me, to be honest."

Thorin visibly paled, and took yet another step backwards. He turned his eyes away, and when he spoke it seemed it was no longer aimed at Bilbo. "It cannot be…"

"I'm sorry?" Bilbo said, uncertain whether the words had even been meant to reach his ears.

But Thorin turned back to him, and his face was suddenly grim.

"You fought to give back our home. I- _we_ could not rob you of yours. I forbade it."

Bilbo blinked in confusion.

"You-… forbade it?" he asked, feeling as though the conversation had taken a turn down a road he could not follow.

Thorin closed his eyes. "The company… they wished to ask you to remain, so they came to me first, as it is unprecedented in this age for someone not dwarf to be invited to live in dwarfish dwellings, to ask my leave."

"Oh." said Bilbo, "I did not know."

"I could not let them."

A huff of air slipped out without Bilbo meaning for it to, as if the words had been a physical blow. But then he regained control of himself and cleared his throat and straightened his posture. "I absolutely understand. Quite right. Traditions-"

"Had nothing to do with it." Thorin interrupted, raising his hand. "Mahal can keep His traditions, but I couldn't ask you to stay."

Bilbo deflated slightly and looked at Thorin in confusion. "Why? Why couldn't you?"

Thorin seemed tormented when he replied. "I have said why, Hobbit! Because you spoke of little else but the Shire during our whole journey! You spoke of your warm hole in the earth, with comfortable chairs and a beautiful garden. You spoke of it so dearly that I began to regret not looking at it closer when I saw it, so fondly I sometimes wished to return myself. It is your _home,_ hobbit, and few could understand that longing better than the dwarves of Erebor. Better than me."

Bilbo was, for a moment, rendered speechless by this series of proclamations. Perhaps more than any, the revelation that Thorin had apparently spent thought and time pondering his modest hole, when he had halls of gold wanting for him at journey's end.

"While I appreciate your… _thoughtfulness_ , I think that it was misguided." Bilbo said carefully. Thorin's brow knitted. "You will have to forgive my presumptuousness, as it was never a conscious decision, but I believe that… somehow, between our battles with dragons and goblins, I fought so hard for it that this became my home as well."

Thorin stared.

" _This?"_ he asked.

"This." Bilbo repeated with an all-encompassing splay of his hands. "This mountain. This kingdom. Erebor. I spent months on the road longing for home, but when I came to the Shire I found that it was no longer there to be found. So I went back and now I am-… here. Home."

He felt oddly naked after his admission, scarcely elaborated upon even in the privacy of his own mind. All the more so now, after it having been made plain to him that he had taken liberties not granted to anyone for thousands of years.

And Thorin said nothing.

So, as his hearth throbbed and a dizziness began somewhere behind his eyes, Bilbo did what he tended to do, and begun babbling. "Perhaps Dale. I could live in Dale. The reparations are really coming along there, aren't they? And Bard is a kindly fellow, he'd probably let me purchase a nice patch of dirt. Or the elves! Well, if Thranduil has warmed to me sufficiently, I suppose. But he is rather rancorous, isn't he? Comes with the whole undying business, likely. Probably Dale, then. It is closer, too, I could come visit, sometimes, if I'm allowed-"

"Visit. If you are _allowed-"_ Thorin broke off, seeming rather bewildered.

Bilbo's giggle was rather wet. He wondered if he could sneak a handkerchief from his pack without the King noticing.

Then suddenly Thorin was upon him, enveloping him in strong arms that effortlessly lifted his feet from the ground, and Bilbo could only wrap his smaller arms around him in return, fingers pressing hard against his back. If he hid his face against Thorin's shoulder and bare neck, well… there was no one there to bear witness.

"Hobbit. Bilbo. If an invitation into our halls is unprecedented in this age, it is only because so is the kindness and generosity you have shown our people. If your heart has taken this as your home…" Thorin's voice cracked ever so slightly, "then we shall be honored and humbled to accept you."

Bilbo found no words that seemed to string together to make a sufficient reply, and perhaps it was just as well, because his throat had closed up so tightly that it hurt. He wanted no more than to cling onto Thorin until the rest of the world receded.

Thorin, however, seemed to realize how unkingly his behavior was in the silence, and hurried to put Bilbo back down. He cleared his throat and stepped away, and on a heavy exhale resumed his regal posture.

"I will not banish you, hobbit. Never again. Your rooms are and have been unoccupied since the time of your departure. They are yours. Forever, if you wish it."

"I-…" Bilbo found that he could not continue, so instead he bowed and smiled, and hoped that it would be enough to convey his gratitude.

Thorin smiled back, and inclined his head in return.

"Might I also say that I believe that the young princes will be overjoyed at your return?" he said with a twist in his smile when he straightened. "They hardly ate for a week after you left."

Bilbo couldn't help but to beam at this. His heart felt strangely light and fluttery, and smiles came easily to his lips.

"And you, oh King under the Mountain," Bilbo teased, "how do you feel?"

Thorin's smile softened to something much more vulnerable and genuine.

"Lucky beyond what I deserve." he said.

Bilbo's smile faltered in the face of that honesty. "Thorin. You were not yourself, and what you were responsible for you have been already forgiven. If not before, then certainly now for granting me this."

Thorin huffed a self-depreciating laugh. "I would not have a home to grant you had you not been at my side."

Bilbo laughed as well. "Surely you exaggerate, but I shan't look a gift horse in the mouth."

Surprisingly, all merriment was expelled from the King's face at Bilbo's words. "I do not exaggerate. It would have been extremely hard for me to reach Erebor without you, Bilbo, and impossible to keep it. I _cannot_ overstate the importance you had."

"Oh." Bilbo couldn't help but to squirm a little under Thorin's intense gaze, and to joke in the face of such weighty praise. "Well, why didn't you just say so? You could have spared me half a year of journeying!"

It backfired completely as Thorin shook his head somberly.

"I am greedier for you than I ever was for the arkenstone during my sickness. But though I have many unseemly qualities, I do learn from my mistakes; I knew what that greed almost cost me and I would not do any such thing again. That's why I did not ask to keep you."

Bilbo blinked rapidly as he looked up at the King, sure for a moment that it would turn out to be a daydream or hallucination. When nothing faded, he furrowed his brow. A misinterpretation then?

"Keep me, Thorin?" Bilbo asked, "And what need do you have, to be greedy for me?"

Thorin looked startled, then a deep blush colored his cheeks. His head bowed and his eyes closed and there came a soft whisper of Khuzdul that, from the enunciation, Bilbo was fairly certain was a curse.

Thorin's smile was rather stiff when he looked back up. "I have snared us both in my clumsy words. I do not suppose you would disregard my blunderings?"

"No. No, Thorin, I would not. What is it that you are saying?" A small sense of urgency was beginning to blossom in Bilbo's chest, as if this was what he had traveled across Middle Earth to hear and if there were any interruptions any chance to do so would be gone.

"Bilbo, please-"

"Why won't you tell me!?"

"Because of what you have said to me today!" Thorin said, and looked truly pained, "I knew you to be too kind to leave if I asked you to stay, and likewise I know you to be gentle enough to depart to spare me the discomfort of rejection. I do not wish to be responsible for robbing you of both your homes, Bilbo."

Bilbo blinked at the King, slumped and with his broad arms outstretched in a placating and pleading gesture.

"You are worse than any elf, Thorin Oakenshield!" Bilbo declared in frustration. "Say what you mean and cease talking in circles!"

Thorin blinked at that.

Then for the second time that afternoon he scooped Bilbo up and held him close. Except this time his broad hand came up at the back of Bilbo's neck, and angled his head so that their lips met in a soft kiss.

But barely did their lips touch before Thorin pulled away.

Bilbo blushed so furiously he hardly knew what to do with himself, but Thorin looked calm, as though the secret had weighed on him and now he found himself unexpectedly light.

"You must forgive my forwardness. As you pointed out, I am not so talented with words."

"I'm afraid you will have to use some of them nevertheless," Bilbo said breathlessly, and his hand came up to touch his tingling lips. "Do you mean to say that- that-… What do you mean to say?"

Bilbo thought the King looked rather too calm for a conversation such as this one, but perhaps that was only because he himself was so agitated. He noticed how Thorin's eyes trailed his finger that was tracing the edges of his lips, and he stilled.

"That I have never met another person so dear to my heart, and that my world has been lesser since you left it. That, if I had my way, you would never leave again." Suddenly the King's eyes left his fingers and lips, and met his gaze. "Though you would have little need of that chamber I granted you."

Bilbo was quite positive even his hair turned scarlet. "Thorin!"

Thorin smiled wryly. "Are you scandalized, my dear hobbit? I would be rather sympathetic, but you did ask me to be plain."

"Plain, not crude," Bilbo huffed, but it was without heat.

Thorin grinned for a moment, but then his expression suddenly crumbled. "Mahal, and I thought myself strong. I have done everything I promised myself I wouldn't do and more besides."

"Now you are being mysterious again…" Bilbo said warily, a furrow appearing on his brow.

Thorin dragged a hand over his beard and looked rather miserable.

"Bilbo, plainly, I love you. I have not told you because I did not want to pressure you to either stay or leave. I am sorry to have laid this burden on you now, though selfishly I cannot help but be relieved to have it off my heart."

The air was suddenly hard to breathe; it seemed to stick in his throat and left him so depraved that his head begun spinning.

"Love me?" he heard a shrill voice wonder, and he realized that it must be his own.

But… _him?_ A hobbit. A common hobbit who could hardly hold a sword nor fend for himself. Who preferred soft flowers over hard stones. Thorin was a _king_. What would Bilbo do, rule by his side, over a people he did not belong to? What about furthering his line? Furthering traditions?

There were so many objections.

And yet… none at all.

"Well then," he said, half to himself, "I might have to decline that room after all."

"No!" Thorin exclaimed, jolting Bilbo back to full awareness.

Hurt flashed in Thorin's eyes at Bilbo's reaction, and he shrunk back and softened his voice. "No, please, I will keep my distance. I swear I will not be a bother to you. If nothing else, I would rather leave myself than to see you go."

Bilbo would perhaps have laughed if Thorin had not looked so anguished.

"Thorin, that is not what I meant."

Instead he took a step closer and lifted Thorin's hand in both of his. There were three rings on it, and Bilbo absentmindedly ran his thumb along the one Thorin had worn for as long as they had known each other, a large iron one adorning his middle finger.

"Aren't we a fine pair?" he asked with soft amusement, and looked up from Thorin's hand to his face.

His eyes were wide and confused, and he seemed quite unsure what to do.

Bilbo could now not keep himself from letting out a soft and rather embarrassed laugh. "I did not mean I didn't want a room in the mountain _at all._ I was referring to… I mean, if it still stands… I was referring to your comment about there being little need for me to have _my_ _own_ rooms."

From the way it looked, this did not clear things up for Thorin, though his expression changed from slight alarm to more thorough bewilderment.

"Thorin, you could not possibly be a bother to me. If you were to leave, I would leave with you. I left the Shire because there was nothing for me there. Because… because you weren't there. Home is where the heart is, they say, so I came back. To you."

Bilbo wrapped his hands around Thorin's, and only with Thorin's previous words freshly in mind did he find the courage to say his own.

"You have my heart Thorin. I love you too."

And then Thorin kissed him, and Bilbo kissed him back, and he never left again.

It wasn't the expected thing to do, but, somehow, it was it all the sweeter for it.

* * *

This song in the beginning of this story is by Tolkien: you might recognize it from the beginning of the Fellowship. But there is indeed several versions of it: one Bilbo sings (as described) when he sees Bag End after returning from Erebor in The Hobbit. One (the one in this story) he sings when he leaves for the elves after his 111th birthday party (Frodo also sings this once, with a very slight modification). The last is from the Return of the King, when the hobbits return to Rivendell after the quest is finished.


End file.
